Rime had regained her ability to love, but what might she have lost?
Did she truly remember everything she had been, everything she had known, as a dragonheart?
Would every dragonheart react as Rime had? Perhaps he should
speak to Flute, and find out whether she agreed with Rime's assessment.
Rime said she had been unable to love when she was a dragonheart, but Arlian believed he had loved Sweet. Her loss still weighed upon him. He had thought that her memory was a part of why he had never found another woman to be more than a friend or a brief amusement, but perhaps it was entirely the taint in his blood that prevented it. Perhaps what he had felt for Sweet was not love at all, or perhaps it had burned out his venom-diminished capacity for love.
To be able to love again, to live without the hard obsession that anchored his soul, to know the security of a family as he had when he was a little boy—that was a prospect so appealing that the thought of it was almost painful.
And the idea that he might raise his hopes, and suffer through weeks of pain, and then find that he could never again know ordinary human emotions—that possibility was both painful and terrifying.
Did the other dragonhearts know that Rime's experience had been so happy? Perhaps a letter could be written and copied and distributed; perhaps more might surrender themselves to the Aritheians' ministra-tions if the word were spread.
He would suggest it to the Duke when next they spoke.
And perhaps someday, when the last dragon had died, he would ask the Aritheians to cut out his heart and wash the dragon's venom from his veins.
11
Encounters at the Citadel
Encounters at the Citadel
When he returned to the Grey House no message had arrived, and after further consideration, and a chat with Black, Arlian decided that he would not wait to be summoned; on the third day after his return to Manfort he presented himself at the Citadel's gate and requested an audience with His Grace, the Duke of Manfort.
He was shown in immediately, as befitted his station, and word was sent to the Duke while Arlian was escorted to an elegant waiting room.
He would have preferred to wait in his own office in the outer wall, but apparently the Duke had given orders to the contrary.
The waiting room, decorated in powder blue and off-white, was pleasant enough, and he discovered upon his arrival there that he was by no means the only one waiting; a dozen assorted courtiers and messengers were scattered about the chamber. They looked up at his entrance, but most, upon seeing it was merely an addition to their number and not an official summoning them to the audience chamber, then returned to what they had been doing before.
Three well-dressed men were clustered in a corner, talking quietly; a man and a masked woman stood looking out one of the three broad windows; another elegantly gowned woman was seated on a blue silk couch while a masked man in bottle-green velvet leaned over the back to speak to her. Two men sat silently in their chairs, one of them reading from a small book; another man leaned indolently against the wall, watching everyone else.
And in the center of the room a masked man had been speaking with a splendid young woman, and these two did not return to their conversation; instead they stared silently at Arlian.
Arlian returned their gaze calmly. He did not recognize the woman, and the white silk mask that covered the man's face from brow to chin concealed his identity quite effectively.
The masked man leaned over and whispered a few words in his
companion's ear; she threw him a quick glance, then looked back at Arlian and smiled. She took a step toward him and held out one slim white hand.
"Lord Obsidian, I believe?"
Arlian looked her over quickly as he accepted her hand and bowed.
He did not recognize her face, but she was so young that he could not be sure they had not met previously; when last he visited Manfort she would have been still a girl, rather than a woman, and her appearance might have been quite different. Certainly, she would have been too young to have worn the low-cut blue velvet gown that displayed her unquestionable charms so admirably, and the elaborate hairstyle fram-ing her face had not yet come into fashion.
"You have the advantage of me, my lady," he said. "Although my ignorance of the identity of anyone so lovely as yourself is clearly a disgrace, I hope you will forgive me—I have been long away from Manfort."
"Of course, my lord. I am Lady Tiria of Gallows Hill, and I am but newly arrived in Manfort myself, so you could hardly be expected to know me."
Arlian bowed again.
As he did, however, he saw from the corner of his eye that the man in the white mask had backed away slightly, while keeping his attention on Arlian. Not on Tiria, whom he had presumably been flirting with a moment before, but on Arlian.
Arlian straightened up, released Tiria's hand, and reached out toward her companion. "And who is this, then?"
The man froze for an instant, then reluctantly held out a hand. "I'm, ah . . . Tooth," he said, as he essayed the quickest, most reluctant hand-shake Arlian had experienced in years.
"My pleasure, sir," Arlian said with a nod, noting that Tiria was suppressing a smile at the exchange. "I am Lord Obsidian, of the Grey House."
Arlian had known someone who went by the name Tooth once
before, long ago—in fact, that Tooth had been one of the looters he had sworn to kill. She was also a woman, which this person clearly was not.
Something about the masked man—his voice, or his grip, or perhaps the way he moved—was familiar, but Arlian could not immediately place him. Presumably this was someone Arlian had known here in Manfort, but of course he had been away from the city for so l o n g . . .
The man was of medium height, and black hair with an admixture of gray was visible around the mask's edge—that hardly narrowed the field of possibilities significantly. He was dressed well but not ostentatiously—his brown linsey-woolsy coat was plain but of excellent cut, while the white silk cravat at his throat precisely matched his mask but was not embroidered and bore just a single narrow edging of lace.
It was not obvious from his attire whether he was a lord or merely a successful tradesman—and Arlian suspected the ambiguity was deliberate. Whoever this man was, he clearly did not want to be recognized.
Arlian did not believe for an instant that he ordinarily called himself Tooth, and the mask, ostensibly a mere fashion accessory, was almost certainly intended to conceal his identity not just from Arlian, but from everyone.
A perverse whim struck Arlian. "Have we met, Tooth?" he asked, staring at the eyes behind the mask—eyes that even when half-hidden seemed to have an odd depth and intensity to them.
Tooth essayed a nervous laugh, and replied, "We have now, my lord."
"Of course," Arlian said, managing a polite chuckle. Then he was suddenly at a loss for words as the pieces fell into place and he realized who Tooth was.
It was the laugh that had done it. He could not recall exactly when he had heard it before, and it was not a particularly distinctive laugh, but nonetheless it had served as the final puzzle piece to trigger something in his memory. He glanced at Tiria, wondering if she knew who she had been speaking with—and seeing the expression on her face, he was certain she did.
Did that mean that she, too, was a dragonheart?
No, Arlian decided, her face did not have that ferocity that marked the heart of the dragon. It seemed clear, though, that in all probability she was in league with the Society.
Just what that meant, why she was in Manfort and in the Citadel, was another question entirely. Had he encountered her at one of his camps in the course of the winter he would have assumed she was, like Wren, at best a spy and more likely an assassin, but here in the Duke's stronghold . . .
"What brings you to the Citadel, my lord?" Tiria asked, breaking the moment of silence before it became noticeably awkward.
"Oh, I am but recently returned from slaying dr
agons in the Duke's service, and came to give my report."
"Ah, the dragonslayer has been at work! And would you care to rehearse this report for us, my lord? I know that I am eager to hear it, whether His Grace is or not."
That she was indeed a spy in the service of the Dragon Society seemed possible. Everyone knew of the Duke's weakness for pretty women, and it was widely rumored that his marriage some ten years ago had merely tempered his enthusiasm and increased his circumspection, not ended his adventures. A lovely creature like Tiria might well wangle a few secrets out of His Grace.
And her interest in his report might appear innocent enough, might be innocent enough, but it might also be part of her assignment.
"I do not think that would be suitable, my lady," Arlian said. "But perhaps we can meet after our various appointments, and I might review for you what I will have told the Duke?"
"That would be delightful, my lord. Shall I come by your home this evening, perhaps?"
Perhaps she was an assassin after all, Arlian thought, rather than a spy; he doubted she would have come here to kill the Duke, since that would have been almost certain suicide, but she might well have come here to kill him.
In fact, she might have been here in this waiting room not in hopes of seeing the Duke, but waiting for Arlian to put in his inevitable appearance. The Society almost certainly knew he had headed back to Manfort; while Wren had presumably never reported in, Arlian's failure to walk into the ambush would have been noticed. A word or two with almost anyone in Ethinior would have told an informant where he was going instead, and sorcery could have conveyed the information to Manfort more quickly than Arlian had made the journey. Arranging to have an assassin waiting would not have been difficult.
Flirting with him, arranging an assignation—what better way to get close enough to kill him? It had been tried often enough before.
"And would you be interested, as well, my dear Tooth?" Arlian asked, looking the masked man in the eye. He could see Tiria's pout, but he remained focused on "Tooth."
After an instant's hesitation, Tooth essayed a bow. "I would be delighted, my dear Obsidian," he said.
"Then I will look for you both at the Grey House this evening, if our business here is done by then. For supper, perhaps?"
Tiria and Tooth exchanged glances.
"Let us see what our circumstances permit, my lord," Tiria said.
"Of course." Arlian made a small bow. He smiled.
Hie smile would certainly appear to be directed at Tiria, but it was actually to himself. He believed he knew what was going through their minds, and he was fairly certain that he would not be dining with Lord Zaner—for he had identified the white-masked Tooth as no other—that evening. Zaner could scarcely hope to keep his identity hidden at the table; one did not wear a mask while eating. He would undoubtedly find some excuse to avoid the meal, but might arrive later—if he came at all.
There was no obvious reason for Tiria to delay, though. As a dragonheart Arlian did not need to fear poison in his wineglass, but she might consider supper an ideal opportunity to worm her way into his confidence.
She had clearly not expected him to invite Zaner; he had done that deliberately to tease her, to make plain that her attempts at seduction would not be as easy as she had clearly hoped, and her pout had been his reward. On the other hand, letting them both into his home would mean that if either of them intended an assassination, she or he would now have a ready accomplice.
Arlian thought he could handle any assassination attempt, since he had already survived so many over the years, but he would still want to be sure that Black or Isein, or other reliable employees, remained close at hand at all times while Tiria and Zaner were present.
All in all, though, he looked forward to matching wits with these two, and perhaps permanently disposing of one more dragonheart in the near future; that was why he smiled.
Of course, here in the Citadel he could easily have denounced Lord Zaner on the spot, and had him captured or killed; the man had real courage to come here, even disguised. If he were identified he would either be slain immediately, or given a choice between death and the Aritheian cleansing. Despite Rime's enthusiasm for her new life, Arlian doubted Zaner would see that cleansing as a desirable option—hours of excruciating torment, months of slow recovery, a few years of life as an ordinary man, then old age and death.
Long ago Zaner had called Arlian a coward to his face, perhaps hoping to provoke a challenge and duel, perhaps because he had believed it; Arlian had always been certain enough of his own goals and values that the accusation had not troubled him. He wondered, though, whether he would have been willing to march into his enemy's stronghold in so flimsy a disguise, with so much at risk and so little to gain. Perhaps Zaner truly was the braver man.
And just what did Zaner hope to gain by coming here?
That was why Arlian did not simply denounce him, and why Arlian had invited him to the Grey House—he hoped to learn why Lord Zaner of the Dragon Society had come to Manfort, as well as who and what Lady Tiria was.
"You have been in the north, my lord, have you not?" Tiria asked.
"Northwest, in the foothills of the Brokenback Mountains," Arlian replied.
"I have never been there," she said. "Pray tell me, what is the land there like?"
"Pleasant enough, in its way," Arlian began. "Wooded country, for the most part, and much of it pines, with their needles thick on the ground beneath . . . "
At that moment he heard the door behind him open, and he turned to see a captain in the Duke's guard entering the room.
"Lord Obsidian?" the soldier called. "His Grace would see you now."
"Your pardon, my lady," Arlian said, with a final bow; then he turned and followed the officer.
A moment later he knelt before the Duke, performing the ritual obeisance appropriate to a formal audience as a dozen courtiers, Lord Rolinor among them, watched. Arlian was dismayed to see that half of them were masked.
Lord Spider, formerly a dragonheart: and now the Duke's favored advisor, stood silently and unsmiling at the right of the ducal throne.
"Rise, my lord," the Duke said.
Arlian rose, and awaited the Duke's command.
"I am delighted to see you safely home again, Lord Obsidian," the Duke said, smiling an oddly unwelcoming smile. "Lord Rolinor had brought us much of your news, and other matters were consuming much of my attention, so I thought it best to allow you a few days' rest before summoning you to the Citadel; I see your patience wore thin."
"Not at all, Your Grace; say rather, my eagerness to serve you over-came my fatigue."
"Very good, then! I understand you disposed of nine of our ancient foes in the course of this past winter?"
"I am pleased to say that my men did indeed slay nine dragons, Your Grace, and without the loss of a single human life." Arlian allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction; the Duke, however, did not smile in return.
"And the year before . . . "
"Eight, Your Grace. My steward makes the total to be eighty-eight since you first named me to lead the campaign against the beasts. We estimate perhaps fifty more still survive."
"Eighty-eight! Remarkable." The Duke leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly—Arlian supposed he was calculating something, and mathematics had never been one of his strengths. "If your numbers are correct, then well over half have been exterminated!"
"At dreadful cost," someone said. Arlian glanced at a blue-masked face, a woman he did not recognize standing at Rolinor's right hand.
"Scarce a week passes in the summer months that a village or hamlet is not devastated by the surviving dragons in retaliation for your depredations; why, the death toll must be in the thousands!"
Arlian bit his lip before saying, "Perhaps tens of thousands, my lady; I do not deny this cost, and my heart aches whenever I think on it. I have devoted much of my fortune, and as much time as I can spare from hunting the creatures, to the mining
of obsidian, the building of catapults, and the fortification of as many towns as possible—and those fortifications have proven effective. While only two dragons have been confirmed slain by catapult bolt since the destruction of the Old Palace fourteen years ago, no town thus defended has been destroyed."
"Naturally, the dragons choose the easier targets!"
"And when all our towns are thus equipped, presumably the raids will cease," Arlian said. "Better still, when all the dragons are dead, the very possibility of raids will cease."
"But then w e . . . "
The Duke cleared his throat.
The blue-masked woman clearly had more to say, but a glance at the Duke's expression forestalled any further comment; she left her sentence unfinished.
Arlian thought he could guess what the woman would have said: That no town that had sworn fealty to the Dragon Society had been attacked, any more than the fortified ones had been destroyed. That the Lands of Man had known seven centuries of peace before Arlian's arrival stirred the dragons from their caves, and perhaps a similar truce could be negotiated once again.
He supposed the Duke had heard it all before, and did not care to hear it again.
"I am impressed with the progress of the war against the dragons, my lord," the Duke said. "I would be interested in hearing your comments on another matter, however."
"I will endeavor to satisfy Your Grace's curiosity," Arlian said, with a slight bow. He did want to continue discussing the war, at least to the point of mentioning the planned ambush he had avoided and its possible significance, but that could wait until he had humored the Duke and dealt with whatever other subject he chose to address.
"You have traded in the Borderlands, and you were responsible for reopening the road to Arithei, I believe?"
Puzzled, Arlian nodded. "As you say."
"In fact, you made a large part of your fortune dealing in Aritheian magic, did you not?"
"I did, though I am no magician myself."
"And you have studied sorcery?"
Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) Page 10